Friday
"So, what was wrong with this guy?," Chelsea asked me at midnight while she sipped her margarita. We were sitting across from each other at a bar downtown we'd chosen specifically because of the cute lightbulbs, though the mere fact we'd even ended up together on this night was completely impromptu. I had been on a date, she'd been getting drinks with a friend and, after I'd told the guy I had to go home because I was pretty sure my stove was on, Chels and I met at the bar to recap our evenings.
Chelsea knows me well enough to know I always find something slightly wrong with the men I date. Because we've been friends since we were fourteen and have the unique experience of attending high school in Idaho, college in Indiana and now working together at the exact same job in New York City, she's been witness to my boy struggles from when I was essentially a child and in love with my high school boyfriend to when I was kissing all the guys in college to now, when we were at the bar and I couldn't find the exact words to describe why I was no longer into the man I'd met last week at the tea shop.
I imagine it is incredibly frustrating to be my friend.
I also imagine it's frustrating to be my friend because I am convinced Chelsea and her boyfriend, Alberto, have made it their life goal to find me a boyfriend, though they have yet to be successful. This is based solely on the fact they have tried to set me up with multiple people over the past year -- even when I'm not in the same vicinity or the same state. When you take into account the amount of effort the two of them have put into getting me a significant other, it's actually somewhat amazing I am still single. However, I think they are unsuccessful because they haven't set me up with anyone who is specifically my type. This is because the men I do date are very, very concerning to Alberto -- not only because they are 30 and skateboarders and maybe sometimes do a weird amount of drugs, but mostly because I am very into very skinny dudes and he can't understand why.
They wouldn't let me wear my fanny pack to the bar because it would deter boys.
Late in the summer, Alberto, Chelsea and I went to Dewey Beach for the weekend along with our friend, Adam. Dewey Beach, for the record, is amazing. It's basically exactly what Spring Break in Panama City Beach was like my junior year of college, but our ceiling didn't fall in and no one's afraid of being arrested for underage drinking. We were there for three days and, during that time, drank an excessive amount of margaritas, went out to the bars with all our waiters and waitresses and danced on a stage that was eerily similar to Dill Street.
Also, I fell in love.
Because Dewey really is the PCB of the northeast, all of the bars put on these huge concerts at night featuring mostly local bands who, oddly enough, sing a lot of Carly Rae Jepsen. It was at one of these concerts on our second evening there I fell in love with one of the DJs the exact moment he walked on stage. Between his strong cheekbones and tiny man-bun and enthusiastic dancing to Backstreet Boys, I thought I was actually dying while watching him perform, a fact I turned around and relayed to my three friends multiple times.
Though we never once interacted, I am a huge creep and, so, followed him on Instagram. I'd somewhat recovered from my intense infatuation with him in the weeks after Dewey and hadn't thought of him again until last Friday morning before my date. I was laying in bed, drinking a green smoothie and scrolling through Instagram when I came across a photo of the DJ... in Central Park (!!!). Almost simultaneously, I spilt my smoothie all over myself and took a screenshot to send to Chels, Alberto and Adam.
The following was Alberto's response:
Accurate.
Anyway -- back to my date.
While I'd initially been excited at our spontaneous meeting and date the previous Friday night, something about this guy had been wearing me down all week. Maybe it was because he kept calling me "Cutie," using smiley faces and abbreviating words like "U", things I absolutely despise in texting, or maybe because it was pouring rain on the night of our date, but I did not want to leave my apartment -- not even to go search Central Park for the DJ. All I wanted to do was lay in bed, drink tea and read a book for a relaxing evening in, but since I'd already committed to meeting him in Flatiron, I instead found myself walking to the subway in the rain, texting Zach and Ashley all of my dating complaints.
As I've written about before, Zach, Ashley and I have had a group text between the three of us since late 2013. Whether it's talking about our jobs, asking for life advice or simply just chatting about nothing, I can't imagine going a day without sending them a message -- especially before I'm about to go on a date. Besides sending photos of what I'm planning on wearing, they're also my sounding board for all the concerns I have with the men I date. I now realize this is attributing to my biggest fear (besides ketchup and my downstairs neighbor murdering me), which is that I'll actually end up really liking one of the guys I've pre-texted Zach and Ashley about... so much so we'll someday get married and either one or both of them will make a drunk speech at my wedding about how on our initial meeting, I'd told them his ring reminded me of something Gimli from Lord of the Rings would wear.
Also, I guess it's time to confess something -- Ashley, Zach and I have a weird habit of not ever referring to the people we're dating by their actual names. Instead, we prefer to use nicknames. It's something we started in college when Ashley and I both were semi in love with a guy we called "Cool Guy" and it's stuck ever since. Between the three of us in the past two years, we've liked people "named" Maybe/Maybe Not Drug Dealer A and HCI and Cruise Doctor -- it's so bad Ashley was dating the same guy for over eight months and I only referred to him as Art Dude for the entire duration of their relationship.
Because of this, it wasn't weird (at least for us) when I was telling them I was pretty sure things weren't going to work out between me and Hitch, mostly because he'd told me he despises rompers and that's literally 75% of my wardrobe and, also, because his ring really did remind me of something J.R.R. Tolkien created.
But, anyway, after I'd gotten on the subway and asked Zach to go to my apartment because I really was sure I'd forgotten to turn the stove off, I met up with Hitch -- nicknamed appropriately because he's employed as a dating coach -- at the bar we'd agreed on. And, it was fun. The bar we'd gone to was really nice and our conversation flowed easily. He told me about the dating workshops he was teaching that weekend and I told him about how I'd once broken my elbow by skiing into a pond in high school. The date was going so well -- but, I still just couldn't put my finger on why I wasn't as interested. I couldn't figure it out, that is, until later that night when we were in Madison Square Park, sitting on a bench and quietly talking. Hitch had just told me my jacket, a tight-fitting cardigan completely covered in gold sequins, reminded him of Michael Jackson (which, I think, he meant as a compliment), then leaned in to kiss me...
...And, in that moment, he looked so much like my uncle that I completely freaked out, ended the date as immediately as possible by saying my apartment was probably on fire and found myself 20 minutes later, relating this exact story back to Chelsea at the bar with cute lightbulbs.
Chelsea agreed looking like a member of my family was an acceptable reason to no longer feel obligated to go on dates with Hitch and we began to discuss other, more important things (like, how cute the lightbulbs were) over our drinks.
Four beers, one grilled cheese and approximately fifteen margaritas Chelsea swears were just lime juice (but, trust me, they were most certainly not), it was almost 2:30 in the morning. We'd moved from a table to the bar because I was very focused on flirting with the bartender when a man wearing a captain's uniform approached us.
For some reason, this did not seem bizarre.
We began talking to the captain and his friend about a lot of things -- the date I'd just been on with Hitch and how he teaches classes to pick up women, our jobs at TIME and, eventually, why this man was wearing a captain suit to a bar. He explained his family owned a yacht, conveniently docked right down the street, and he was the captain of the boat while his friend was the bartender.
I was ecstatic. I'd left a date, turned horrible because he looked like my uncle, then randomly meet an attractive yacht captain?! This was the luckiest day of my life. Unbeknownst to me, however, Chelsea did not believe this man was an actual captain. She was pretty sure he'd gotten his outfit at Party City and, so, when they invited us to get drinks on the yacht, we went to the restroom to discuss our options. Ultimately deciding my mother would be livid if we were killed in the Hudson River, we turned down the offer. Instead, I exchanged numbers with the (possible) attractive captain, wrote my number on the receipt for the cute bartender and hopped into a cab with Chelsea, laughing hysterically the entire time about our night.
When we got to my cross-streets, I got out of the cab and the taxi continued on, taking Chelsea up to her home on the west side. Still, even though we'd just spent the entire evening together, I text her almost immediately after I'd left the vehicle. This is because I am co-dependent and also, because I am a professional Facebook stalker, a title I'm equally ashamed and proud of. Before I'd even succeeded in making it up my six flights of stairs, I'd already located the captain's Facebook profile -- and, turns out HE ACTUALLY DOES DRIVE A YACHT.
This led to an in-depth texting debate with Chelsea about where he keeps the boat, whether or not I should someday go on a date with him and how effective his method of picking up women with his costume truly is.
I was laughing to myself so loudly in my apartment when I read Chelsea's texts that I'm 100% sure I woke up Arthur.
As soon as I stopped giggling hysterically, I laid down face-first in my bed, then promptly fell asleep.
You know, just a typical Friday night.
SATURDAY
The next morning, I woke up surprisingly easy for the amount of "lime juice" we'd drank, though I was also still wearing my romper, a habit I'd picked up when I was living in England during the summer of 2012. After calling my mom, a Saturday morning ritual I love (and, I'm sure she does as well, so she can make sure I'm alive and, you know, not drowned in the Hudson), I turned my attention to my text messages, intent on informing Zach and Ashley about my night with the yacht captain.
Ironically, it was only after explaining the story, then sending them multiple emojis of credit cards and cash to imply he came from a rich family when I realized I hadn't seen my wallet since I'd left Chelsea in the taxi.
Not my proudest moment.
In the first moments after I'd realized I'd left my wallet in the cab, I felt like I could actually hear the opening five seconds of "The Hills" by The Weeknd as the soundtrack of my life. For clarification:
I tore my apartment completely apart and, after coming to the realization my studio is not large enough to lose something in (and, after Zach asked me to check my bra, remembering I'd found Goldfish there before), began to accept that this was maybe going to be worse than the time I'd left my cell phone in the back of a taxi.
I decided to put off all of the inevitable adult decisions I was clearly going to have to now make and, instead, combatted my upcoming anxiety attack by ignoring the missing wallet/credit card/license problem and going to yoga.
But, after I got home from class and, once again, overturned all the furniture in my tiny studio, I realized everything really was gone. So, I made the executive decision to call my mother because even though I live alone and literally provide for myself, I am also kind of a helpless child still.
After my mom walked me through all the steps I would need to take, I hung up and, sitting in front of my laptop, began to call Bank of America. Out of force of habit, I pulled up my Gmail account first and my heart stopped at an email I'd received just four minutes earlier.
Sal is BAE.
I called Sal and he answered immediately. Through emotional laughter and tears, I told him multiple times he was my actual favorite person in the entire world and we made plans to meet up down in the Financial District by his apartment when he was done with brunch.
Then, I sent a screenshot of the email to my entire family with multiple exclamation marks, though they were not as excited about my meet-up with Sal as I was. For the third time that day, I found myself on the phone with my mother. Instinctively wary of strangers, she wasn't entirely convinced meeting up with Sal was not an elaborate set-up to kidnap me and, so, she had one request.
I had to bring Zach along.
I called Zach, who was simultaneously in the middle of the East Harlem Target having a small life crisis and being overwhelmed by adulthood. He told me I was disgustingly lucky, then agreed to come meet Sal.
An hour later, I showed up at Zach’s and didn’t even have to ring in -- which is good, because I have absolutely no idea which button corresponds to his apartment and every time I go there, just randomly punch the numbers until someone in the building lets me inside. When I walked up the stairs and opened the door to his place, Zach was in the kitchen, tearing it completely apart in search for water bottles. I thought this was because he'd suffered from so much anxiety in Target he was now trying to improve on adulthood by drinking more water.
It was actually because he wanted to bring “fun cups” of wine on the subway at 2 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon.
I informed him we couldn’t do that, but promised we could have a celebratory bottle after we'd been reunited with my wallet. So, the two of us headed down to the Financial District sans wine and, when we got there, I let Sal know I'd arrived. He told me to meet him outside Chipotle in five minutes and that he'd be wearing a blue shirt.
This is when I realized a) I loved him even more than I originally did because, obviously, Chipotle and b) I had no idea what Sal looked like. Because of this, the next five minutes were spent by Zach and I squinting uncomfortably at every man who passed us by wearing blue.
Finally, after he'd said he was there, I called Sal and was able to identify him as the guy talking on the phone directly across the street. I'm not even sure if I had the right of way or if traffic was oncoming, but I was so excited, I sprinted to him. It took all the self-restraint I had not to hug him on impact and, by that, I mean I asked nicely if I could hug him, then threw my arms around Sal. The sweetest man I've possibly ever met, Sal refused to take the money I offered him, then kindly wished Zach and I a fabulous rest of our day...
...Which is how, thirty minutes later, Zach and I found ourselves sitting on his futon (an improvement from the air mattress!), splitting a bottle of wine.
I'm not entirely sure how long I was there or even what we talked about, but the next thing I knew, it was late in the evening and I was getting in a car on my way to East Village to have dinner with my friends Liz, Pam and Nele.
Full disclosure -- out of the three of the girls I was on my way to have dinner with, I'd only met Liz more than once. The other two were Liz's friends I'd met at a bar the same night Zach and I thought it would be a good idea to drink three bottles of wine. Even after just that one meeting, though, I was low-key obsessed with the two of them the same way I'd been intent on being Liz's friend immediately, so when the four of us met up for dinner at the cutest BYOB French restaurant, I was beyond stoked. We had such a lovely time and, not wanting the night to end, afterward, Pam and I found ourselves popping in and out of bars throughout the East Village.
My recent reunion with my credit cards had left me with an apparent desire to maximize their use. This incessant swiping and purchasing of drinks led us to multiple bars and, finally, a club where I mostly remember a lot of flashing lights and the feeling it was inappropriate for me to be there still carrying the bottle of white wine I'd taken from Zach in my backpack.
I have a feeling I was at the club for longer than I remember being there, for it was 4:30 in the morning before I arrived back at my apartment. I went to Duane Reade to get snacks I'm not entirely sure I remembered to pay for (Zach calls me the Goldfish Thief of the Upper East Side because this happens too often), then laid down face-first and promptly fell asleep.
Really, just a typical Saturday.
sunday
I woke up on my couch feeling much, much worse than I did when I woke up in my bed the previous morning. Somehow, I dragged myself out of my apartment to my noon yoga class, then proceeded to spend over half the session laying on my back in savasana, trying not to throw up or die in the 105 degree heat.
After class, I slowly made my way to Zach's, where I'd left my phone charger, jacket and an innumerable other of my possessions the night before in my attempts to make it to dinner on time. The two of us had been planning on brunching at a cute margarita place on the Upper East Side, but when he opened the door and saw I was both unshowered and severely hungover, those plans were set aside for a different day.
In a weird twist of roles, I instead sat with my head in my hands at his kitchen table, trying to recap my night while Zach meal-prepped for the week and made stew. As I was telling him a recount of my evening, fragments of the dark club began coming back to me and I became painfully aware that, although it seemed implausible, I had a feeling I may have somehow kissed The Weeknd.
Zach just stared at me from over his stew.
It seems unreal and likely is a false memory, though it could be accurate, considering The Weeknd was the musical guest on SNL that night and definitely was in town. I suppose this will be added into my ongoing bank of "Mysteries of NYC," along with how many times I've forgotten to actually purchase those Goldfish at 4 a.m.
After I felt I'd gained a sufficient amount of strength to make it the three blocks to my apartment, I left Zach's and started scrolling through my recent texts. I was surprised to see there was a message from a number I didn't recognize and, thinking it might have been the bartender from Friday night, opened it excitedly.
The bartender's name was not Darryl.
Groaning and even more confused, I went home, where I'd planned on staying in bed all day trying to figure out who Darryl was. Luckily, those plans were interrupted by my friend, Josh, who invited Zach and I to come watch the Broncos game with him at a bar downtown.
Around 5 o'clock, Zach and I met up at the subway and, right before we were about to go underground, Batman, in all his glory, walked up the stairs. Wordlessly, the two of us looked at each other, then trailed him out of our way for three blocks.
Luckily, I took this photo so we could explain why were late with it still being believable.
As predicted, Football Sunday was fun because there is nothing un-fun about drinking beer and eating nachos with your friends. When the game ended, we split up from Josh to head back to the UES and, under the pretense of being adults, Zach and I decided to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond.
We arrived at my favorite place with half an hour before closing time, but this didn't give us anxiety in the least. Instead, we still explored all three floors in search of a bar cart for Zach and a mini-vacuum cleaner for me. After I'd hugged a $70 throw pillow for as long as I possibly could without purchasing it and we'd smelt all of the candles in a way that could be described as violent, the two of us went to checkout. There, we became the proud owners of a "Make-Your-Own-Ice-Cream" ball and other things that are more adult-like and less exciting.
Looking perhaps somewhat homeless from the amount of bags we were carrying, Zach and I trekked back to the Upper East Side, stopping only once at a McDonald's because I think the apples that come in the Happy Meals are among the best food in the world. When we reached my street, the two of us split up and, once I'd gotten up my six flights of stairs and eaten my Happy Meal, I laid down face-first in my bed, then promptly fell asleep.
You know...
... just a typical weekend.